Mycroft's Goldfish
by paintingdreams
Summary: After leaving Sherlock's flat, Mycroft goes home to play with his goldfish. MHxOC
1. Chapter 1

Mycroft's Goldfish

Mycroft Holmes entered his home, closed the door, and placed his umbrella in its stand. He pulled his phone from his pocket, flipping through the messages with his thumb. Wordlessly, he walked through the house, passed the butler in the hallway, the maid in the kitchen, and even his assistant, Anthea, whom he found waiting in the living room.

"Mr. Holmes?" Anthea said, rising from her chair, prying her eyes away from her phone, but her thumbs continued to text.

"I won't be need your services for the rest of the day, Anthea," Mycroft said.

"Sir?" she said, and Mycroft could hear her smile. He turned around.

"Enjoy your afternoon," he nodded before heading back to the foyer, climbing his grand staircase two stairs at a time.

Entering his bedroom, he was displeased upon finding it empty. The bed had been made that morning and it had not been touched since. A mint had lain upon each pillow, but judging by the indentation, one of them was now missing. Mycroft walked through the door on the right to the master bathroom and saw the mint wrapper lying alone at the bottom of the small waste bin by the toilet.

Mycroft briefly entertained the thought of plucking the wrapper up with his fingers to smell how long the mint had been absent, but he didn't need to make that deduction. He had left for Sherlock's flat over three hours ago and the mint couldn't have possibly been there for more than twenty minutes since he remembered seeing the maid collecting trash from the kitchen.

Before he resumed his search, Mycroft removed his jacket, waistcoat, and tie, hanging them back up in the closet. He was certain Sherlock was clueless about his personal life for the past two years, and although Anthea had guessed, she had never seen his partner in person.

He took his time walking to the library, where he was sure to find there, sprawled out on the floor like a child, his partner with her nose engrossed in a leather-bound book. Mycroft opened the door, frowned, and closed it. The door popped open and Mycroft rolled his eyes, closing it again, and lifting the handle so it would click back into its frame. He would have to have that fixed.

It was certainly a day of games for Mycroft Holmes, but he never assumed hide and seek would be one of them. He finally won when he found a pale, young woman with golden blonde hair, nestled in the reading nook with her arms loosely holding her knees, and leaning against the window to watch the rain. A book lay forgotten on the floor. She raised her head when she saw his reflection in the glass.

"Hello, my goldfish," Mycroft said, with his hands in his pockets as he approached her. He shifted her soft legs, placing them on his lap as he sat down.

"I resent that nickname," she smiled, her blue eyes finally acknowledged him.

"You adore it."

"I endure it."

Mycroft smiled and lifting up her right leg, placing a kiss on her foot.

"How was Sherlock?" she asked.

"What makes you think I saw Sherlock?"

She smirked and leaned forward, sniffing the air in between them. "You smell like his apartment."

"Flat," he corrected.

"I'm an American goldfish; get over it."

"God, help me if the British government ever discovered I was entertaining an American goldfish," Mycroft smiled.

"You _are_ the British government."

"You sound like my brother."

"Improbable. I'm a goldfish," she said, reaching down to grab the book. Mycroft saw the title; it was another one of Agatha Christie's.

"Why do you like them so much?" Mycroft sighed.

"They make me laugh."

"You can deduce the endings, then?"

"No," she smiled, glancing over the book at him. "But I know you can and that's what makes me laugh." She went back to the book, picking up where she left off, as if he was just another pillow in the nook. "Don't you have a country to run?" she asked, skimming her toes over the outline of his phone in his trouser pocket.

"I took the afternoon off."

She smirked, "That's only funny when I say it."

"I'm not joking," he said, honestly, and he enjoyed watching her amusement shift into curiosity.

"…And what would a goldfish do with a Mycroft?"

"Whatever she likes," he said and she grinned. The book fell to the floor and she crawled onto his lap, kissing him. His hands cupped her face and his fingers felt her silky golden hair.

Truthfully, Mycroft sometimes enjoyed living in a world full of goldfish.


	2. Chapter 2

The Ice Man Thaws

Every night, they sat together in bed, tucked under blankets and typing away on individual laptops. His contained all of the secrets of the free world and hers contained a gateway of exceedingly useless information. She would never let him see her screen or tell him what she was doing and it irritated Mycroft to no end. _It's like when someone reads over your shoulder_, she would say. _It's annoying and I can't think when you do it_.

"Sometimes, I wonder, how you're capable of thinking at all," Mycroft frowned.

Her eyes slipped up over her computer screen to look at him. He instantly regretted his words as she closed the laptop, grabbed her pillow, and climbed off the bed.

"Where are you going?" Mycroft sighed, watching her carry her things towards the door.

"Deduce it," she snapped.

"The guest room has more than enough pillows. You won't need to bring one," Mycroft sighed.

"Mememe me mememee," she childishly mocked, slamming the door behind her. Mycroft waited and for a moment, he was hopeful that the door would stay shut, until it popped open again, as it always did. Mycroft groaned and whipped back the bed covers to get up and close the door. Upon grabbing the handle, Mycroft heard his bedmate's angry footsteps pounding against the marble floor downstairs. The house's alarm system chirped and he knew that she'd be in the garage. Mycroft rolled his eyes before opening the bedroom door and going after his American goldfish.

He half expected her to attempt to drive away in his car, but he knew she wasn't nearly as foolish. Instead, what he found was a grown woman sitting in the backseat of the car, with her pillow on her lap and her computer on top of it, her fingers rapidly typing away. Mycroft clenched his teeth and walked over to the car door with his hands in his pajama pockets. He bent forward to look at her and spoke through the window.

"You'll freeze to death in there," he said, bored.

"Hypothermia doesn't set in until the core body temperature drops below 95 degrees," she said, refusing to look at him as she continued to type.

"It's an expression," he frowned. "And you mean 35 degrees. We don't use Fahrenheit, remember?"

Her head turned to glare at him and she raised her clenched fist that held his spare set of car keys, pressing a button. On her command, all of the doors locked. Mycroft narrowed his eyes at her and went back inside the house. He knew he left his set of car keys on the set of hooks in the kitchen, but he had half a mind to go back to bed, finish his work, and go to sleep. Only ten minutes later, Mycroft retrieved his keys, making his way back to the woman in the car.

She wasn't fazed when the doors unlocked and Mycroft climbed into the back with her, closing the door. He readjusted his pajamas.

"You are the most irritating woman alive," he said.

"Could've sworn you said that was your mother," she replied, dryly. "Is she finally ready to relinquish the title? I do hope there's a ceremony. God knows I love a sash."

"It's not a sash, but a crown," he said, playing her little game.

"Even better. I'll start mailing invitations to all the Queen's corgis and all the Queen's men."

They were quiet for a while, but Mycroft knew the silence wouldn't last. His little goldfish loved to gab.

"Why do you care what I'm typing, anyway?" she finally said. "If you thought it was important—you could just hack into it like a normal person."

"A normal person?" Mycroft almost laughed. "You think any _normal_ person could access a personal laptop?"

She sighed and unconsciously lowered her screen. "I meant," she said, forcing evenness to her voice, "That you get to do whatever you want. You control security cameras. You know people's dinner reservations. You can somehow post personal messages to people when they go to the ATM."

"Cashpoint," he said, and with this correction, she closed her laptop as if she were shutting him out of her life. She slid the computer off her lap and into the seat between them, nudging it into the side of his leg. Mycroft placed his hand on the laptop's insignia and he, as if they were still speaking, gently pushed the laptop back to her. She glanced at it before her eyes returned to his.

"You know, I don't get you, Mycroft," she announced. "And I know that's not exactly our deal here—but I still don't understand you all the same. You… you use your super government access to stalk all my records down to my birth certificate. You found me once I arrived in London. Basically, you stalked me and then bribed me to go to dinner with you—"

"Which you graciously accepted," he reminded her, frowning.  
"You knew I would," she said. "I could barely afford the trip. I was going to stay in hostels."

"Which your family knew nothing about," he smiled.

"You blackmailed me, if we're going to be perfectly honest with each other."

"You're a grown woman. You're capable of making your own decisions. I'm sure your family wouldn't be too upset if they found out you were going to be spending your holiday in squalor."  
She rolled her eyes.  
"And still, beyond our initial agreement of dinner, you accepted to live with me for the next two years," he said, a small smile gracing his face. She did not return the favor.

"Yes. I moved in with you and in return, I received payment and, I expect, if our separation ends peacefully, I will have other strings magically pulled for me in any city where I see fit to live to maintain my silence," she said, flipping the hair out of her face.

Mycroft pursed his lips and watched her. With slightly raised eyebrows and hunched shoulders, tensed, and her arms folded across her chest, she was often one of the easiest people to read. However, whenever she challenged him on their relationship, her mind was as expansive as the useless facts she collected, although, not nearly as deep.

"The first week," she began, swallowing. "I almost backed out of our deal. I thought I was going to get killed or be sexually exploited. I was going to go back home and tell my family that my so-called _job_," she said, sardonically, "fell through and then… I don't know. I'd figure something else out…. I'm sure I would have..."

Mycroft watched her shake her head and her hand went back up to her hair, raking her fingers through the blonde locks and squeezing them, as if that was somehow a way to relieve stress rather than incite premature female pattern baldness from a minor obsessive compulsive behavior. _Not that she would ever admit to such a habit_, he thought.

"I just couldn't figure out why you wanted this," she said, staring at him, as if waiting for him to show one emotion that would be her answer to everything. "I couldn't figure out why you'd want someone like me living with you all the time."

Mycroft maintained his composure and simply said, "You intrigue me," but she wasn't foolish enough to believe it and rolled her eyes.

"You know I'm not a mystery."

"I don't want you to be something I solve," Mycroft said. "I'm…" he began and then his mouth couldn't form the words as she stared.

"Lonely," she finished for him. His silence confirmed it, whether he liked it or not (and he didn't). Her interest in watching him never faltered and she moved the laptop so she could scoot over to him, as if a closer proximity would increase her chances of reading him (which he knew it wouldn't). "But why did you choose me?" she asked.

Mycroft frowned, "You fit the criteria I was looking for: a young, unattached woman, of a certain aesthetic appeal, no criminal records, no drug or alcohol abuse, who would be holidaying in London and in need of financial support, but is also capable of abiding by my needs for the utmost discretion."  
"Oh, my god. I'm Julia Roberts," she blinked.

"I'm sorry?" Mycroft said, furrowing his eyebrows.

"Julia Roberts? In _Pretty Woman_?" she said, shooting him a look and when he failed to comprehend, she continued. "She's this prostitute in L.A. and she becomes Richard Gere's girlfriend to all of this ritzy events—" her mouth unhinged. "Which makes her more of an escort than a prostitute now that I think about it," she trailed off. "I don't know; but she still has sex with him; do escorts often have sex with their clients?"

"I wouldn't know," Mycroft said, eyeing her, and he was about to put an end to the entire anecdote, but he knew she would reach her conclusion before morning; or so, he hoped.

"Well, anyway, I'm basically Julia Roberts except that I don't go anywhere with you in public, my laugh isn't as obnoxious, and I would never let you order snails for me."

"I'm—not understanding the point of this reference."

"My point is… I'm not really a Julia Roberts," she frowned. "I like spending time with you here, but you're also paying me to."

"I prefer to pay you," he said, quickly.

"I know and I get that—when the money stops, my so-called work visa will magically expire at the snap of your fingers and I'll be on the next flight home. My happy ending is some cash in a bank account and not getting deported—or worse," she added, shooting him a foul look.

"What would be worse?" he asked.

"I don't know. You put some government porn on my laptop."

"The British government doesn't produce pornography."

"Oh, right. Screwing people over while still wearing clothes is called politics."

Mycroft gave her a small smile. He knew she set him up just to get that snide joke in, but when his face fell, her seriousness returned to her features, tensing her face and creating little wrinkles underneath her eyes, from squinting. _She needed a new glasses prescription_, he thought before telling her, "I've never done this before, either. If anyone were to ever find out about you… well, let's just say I've done a lot of things I'm not proud of to keep my reputation clean."

She closed the space between them, curling up against his side. He put his arm around her and counted the seconds between her breaths. Staring at his hand on her back that rose and fell with each breath, it was as if that this was their most intimate embrace and the nerves tingled in his hand more than they ever did anywhere else when they were in bed together.

"Goldfish don't have a long shelf life," she said to him. Her head shifted against him, so that a pair of blue eyes was staring up at him through thick black lashes.

"Well, let's see," Mycroft said, before he pulled his phone out from his pocket to search for the average lifespan of a goldfish, typing out the question with his thumb. "The oldest goldfish lived to be…" he paused, waiting for the page to load.

"Forty-three," she said. "But that's one exception against all those carnival goldfish that die within twenty-four hours," she finished before the page was able to load. Mycroft looked at the age of the oldest goldfish. It lived to be forty-three years old. She was right and he looked at her, curiously. "You always said I'm a collector of exceedingly useless information," she reminded him.

"No," he said, and her eyebrows lifted, as if waiting for him to finish before deciding on their next move. He smiled at her. "You're a collector of exceedingly heartwarming information."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three: The Meeting

_Two Years Ago, London_

Rain. She knew it would rain; she planned for rain; and now the last thing she wanted to see from the windows of Heathrow airport… was _rain_. She yanked her luggage behind her, balancing a leather bag on her shoulder as she walked amongst the droves of people heading towards the airport shuffles, cabs, and personal limousines. It was by far the worst location in any airport (including the toilets) where all of the travelers wanted to leave much faster than they arrived.

The first to meet them were the limousine drivers. They appeared in an arch formation and stood like strong pillars, refusing to step aside for the people who didn't employ their services. The drivers wore satisfied smiles, pretending to be pleasant, but secretly enjoying watching the crowds split and the eyes of frenzied London natives darting back and forth, wanting to beat the tourists to the cab queues.

_Stupid fancy shmancy people and their fancy shmancy drivers_, she thought, maneuvering around people like how a leaf curls and spirals in a wind stream. She weaved around a stumpy man who was arguing with a companion twice his age, and came face to face with one of the drivers. She sidestepped to her left. He sidestepped to his right. She blinked, muttered 'excuse me,' and took a step to the right. The driver then stepped left and cleared his throat, tapping his index fingers on the paper sign. In a bold black font, MISS TOTH was scrawled across it. Her mouth fell open and the driver looked amused, rocking back and forth on his heels.

"But… I didn't call a service." She quickly glanced away from him to the other people around her. No one was eavesdropping and no one was watching them. _This is a missing person's ad waiting to happen_, the thought flitted across her mind.

"My fees have already been covered by your hotel, Miss," the man said, reclaiming her attention.

"I haven't booked a hotel," she lied.

"My employer has… adjusted your accommodations and relocated you to the Haymarket."

"And may I ask _whom_ your employer is?" She raised an eyebrow, grabbing the strap of her leather bag, hunching it further up her shoulder. She could hit him with it if she needed to; it was filled with three thick hardcover books. _Books are almost like bricks…maybe… kind of_, she thought.

"Please consider this as a random act of kindness and welcome to London, Miss Toth," the driver said, still smiling at her. He was unabashed in their surroundings and watched her like reading the subtitles on a film he had seen a hundred times; he already knew what would happen next.

She looked back to the cab lines and her judgment was overruled by the lightness of her wallet, her impatience for standing in the rain without an umbrella, and a gray area between personal safety and desperation where the boundaries hadn't been clear since she was a little girl. And perhaps culture shock _could _be blamed for why she followed the driver to his car… or at least, that's the excuse she would use should this prove to be the stupidest decision of her life.

The driver matched his strides to her pace, only a half step ahead of her, leading her through the crowds out of the airport. He was smart enough not to reach for the bag on her shoulder or her luggage as he unlocked his car that claimed the best curb space amongst the other limousines.

It was a black BMW; the year, she didn't know; and she didn't care. All BMWs were the same to her and this one smelt of money. She refused to use the trunk, shoving her suitcase into the backseat, making sure to roll its dirty wheels across the black leather interior, and sat next to it with her bag on her lap.

The driver took the liberty to close her door for her and she allowed him this small act of chivalry, but it didn't stop her from leaving the door unlocked, the window partway down, and her fingertips touching the handle as if daring him to give her cause to jump out.

She immediately regretted sitting behind him, briefly forgetting that the steering wheel was on the wrong side of the car and that they would be driving on the wrong side of the road to get to the wrong hotel paid for by the wrong person who would probably prefer the wrong morning beverage of tea instead of coffee. _This is definitely wrong_, she thought as the buildings obscured by the car window flecked with rain droplets flickered past her face.

The hired car pulled up to a white faced building with a short, iron-wrought fence leading up to the door. Beyond the fence were columns, mimicking ancient Greece, supporting another level above it with another intricate, iron-wrought fence. There weren't any balconies, but more windows than she could count as she climbed out of the car and onto the pavement, grabbing both her suitcase and personal bag. A large Union Jack swayed above the door and the driver closed the car door behind her.

"Thank you," she said to the driver, still weary of him. He gave her a slight nod. She felt his smile wouldn't wane until they parted. Clearly his amusement of her hadn't faltered since they left the airport.

The doors to the hotel opened and a woman in a pencil skirt and fitted blazer walked out with a bellhop to meet her. Her umbrella popped open and she smiled.

"Welcome, Miss Toth," said the woman. She stepped forward to share her umbrella and shelter her from the rain. "Nathan will take those for you," she said, gesturing towards her bags. They weren't very heavy, but she felt herself surrendering both of them to Nathan, the gangly bellhop.

"I'm Clara," said the woman. "I tend to the requests of very particular and special guests of the hotel." Clara walked them into the building, which was a very short walk from the pavement.

_This is… not what I expected_, she thought, looking around the lobby. The floors were a beige hardwood and the walls were custard. The armchairs and sofas were black and yellow with graphic pillows sitting on them. A black and white painting hung on the wall—she had no idea what it was supposed to be—and the grand centerpiece was a chrome sculpture that looked like Salvador Dali got his hands on some metal. She even thought there were two faces coming out of it.

"It's very beautiful," she said to Clara, who was unceremoniously hiding the now wet umbrella behind the front desk.

Clara smiled, "Thank you. Each room has its own palette of colors. We like to think quirky can also be sophisticated."

Nathan, who still had her suitcase and bag, was nowhere to be found. She assumed he had taken her things up to her room. After all, it made little sense for a hotel to steal anything she brought with her. Especially since she felt self-conscious in the jeans and jacket she was already wearing. She ran her hands through her hair as she followed Clara to the elevators where Nathan was patiently waiting for them. Clara was going through a detailed tour about the hotel including their luxury pool, library, restaurant and bar, and even the surrounding district of shops and galleries.

Entering the elevator, Nathan pressed the button for the fourth floor once they were settled inside. Clara's continued speech about the hotel never faltered. She must have given it over a hundred times.

"—dinner will be at seven. We will send someone up fifteen minutes prior to escort you to our private dining room where you will meet your benefactor. He has been kind enough to have an outfit sent up to your room. The dress has already been pressed, so you won't have to worry about unpacking tonight. And if you have any questions, there is a packet already inside your room on the desk and our concierge will help you with anything you may need."

The elevator stopped on the top floor and when she stepped out of it, there was only one set of double doors. Clara opened the room with a swipe of a plastic

Clara's smile was brief and Nathan's departure even briefer after they showed her to her room.

"Welcome to Haymarket, Miss Toth," Nathan said, giving a stiff nod before closing the doors behind him.

She looked around. She must have been in the penthouse suite. If they even called it that, she had no idea. All she knew was that this was the first hotel room she had ever been in where there was an actual living room and there wasn't a bathroom to your immediate left once you stood in the doorway.

The couches were coral, the armchairs were olive green, the curtains were pink and white, and there was even a fireplace mantel, but whether or not the fireplace actually _worked _remained to be seen.

In truth, while she would never buy any of these pieces, the room did look very nice. Quirky.

_Plus, the couch alone probably costs more than my car, _she thought.

There were weird paintings on the walls that were mostly bright silhouettes of dogs. It led to her thinking that the theme of this room was 'Chic, Dog-Loving Niece of Crazy Cat Lady.'

She stood there for several minutes, waiting for the gravity of the situation to cause her to flee the building, screaming at the top of her lungs, but it never came. She couldn't move her feet and she couldn't run away from the building until she saw what the bathroom looked like. She figured if there was a stand-alone tub, she would stay and meet her benefactor for dinner, but if there was only a walk-in shower, she would leave. And she liked her odds, either way.

The analog clock on the wall, smacked between two windows directly across from her as she stood in the foyer. There weren't any numbers on the clock, so she had to squint before realizing it was just after four.

"So... just three hours until you die," she said dryly. She slung her bag over her shoulder, yanking her luggage behind her heading through the living room to find her bedroom.

Inside the bedroom, it wasn't unlike the living room with its sense of high-end, _sophisticated _quirk. There was a huge, king-sized bed that she would have to climb up to in order to go to sleep that night. There weren't mints on the pillows, but she did pass a small kitchenette, which was probably stocked to the nines. The bathroom looked like it had never been used with its marble countertops, framed mirrors without a trace of watermarks, and the briefest hint of disinfectant. She wrinkled her nose.

And finally, there was a stand-alone bathtub that was nestled beside a gas fireplace, both of which stood haughtily in front of a window draped in a sheer white curtain as if to mock her for ever doubting their existence.

_Damn these fancy people_, she thought, frowning. _And damn Clara with her impeccably rehearsed speeches and her lackey bellhop, Nathan._


End file.
